


of surprise matrimony and a daedra's best friend

by ser_pouncealot



Category: Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Genre: A Daedra's Best Friend, Accidental Marriage, Daedra, Drunken Shenanigans, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, M/M, alternatively titled 'aloubard can't catch a fucking break', somewhat inspired by 'a night to remember', this is probably the cleanest piece of fanfiction i've ever written, very pg
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-09-20
Updated: 2018-09-20
Packaged: 2019-07-14 16:19:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,155
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16044068
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ser_pouncealot/pseuds/ser_pouncealot
Summary: Aloubard wakes up in Riften with a pounding head and one hell of a mess to sort out.





	of surprise matrimony and a daedra's best friend

If the pounding in his head was any indication for what kind of night Aloubard had, he really didn’t want to know about it.

 

The Breton made his way down the stairs of The Bee and Barb, looking a bit like classier version of a windblown skeever. The ache pressing against his temples made itself more prominent with every step he took and the apparent dry state of his mouth seemed like a thirst unquenchable, with a case of nausea to boot. He was miserable, but he’d be damned if that made him late for anything he had planned, if he could remember what that was, exactly.

 

Aloubard pulled out a barstool next to Marcurio and plopped down, accidentally slamming his elbow down on the counter in the process.

 

 _Fuck_ , it was not going to be a good day. He could feel it already.

 

Marcurio eyed the breton over with a grimace. “Rough night?”

 

Aloubard huffed. “Yeah, I suppose so.”

 

He motioned for Keerava to bring him a round. Liquor was good for headaches, or at least he thinks he recalls his sister saying that. Not that he’d refrain from day drinking even if the opposite were true.

 

Marcurio put down his cup and raised his brow in surprise. “I had no idea you got married. Is there a reason I wasn’t invited to the wedding?”

 

Aloubard laughed at the absurd statement, careful not to laugh with enough vigor to agitate his hangover. Marcurio was witty, sure, but too often his jokes fell flat with poor tone. Delivery is everything, he remembers telling the mage on a particularly warm summer night in the Rift. No, Marcurio was being all too serious. It was all rumors, of course, but such things get spread around when you’ve got a name that carries weight.

 

“I’m not. Someone is trying to dupe you, it seems.” He gingerly took a bite of bread and wrinkled his nose up. Nothing, no bounty of wine or banquet of smoked meats is well and appetizing to the palate when paired with a hangover. “Either that or someone’s going around attempting to tarnish my reputation.”

 

Keerava laughed a bit of that. “Hah, reputation… sure. Whatever helps you sleep at night.”

 

Aloubard was about to feign objection to her snide comment when Marcurio grabbed the other mage’s left hand.

 

“You think so? Then what do you call this?”

 

Aloubard put down his drink, and was preparing to additionally object to Marcurio’s overly familiar behavior when he looked down at the hand in question. A ring, one of high quality gold by the looks of it, graced his left ring finger in a manner he found particularly offensive. Sure, it looked like a wedding ring, but surely there was a perfectly rational explanation miles off from what his fellow mage was suggesting.

 

“Maybe I went jewelry shopping? Or won it in a bet…”

 

Marcurio shook his head. “No, I don’t think so. The Temple of Mara puts a specific enchantment, the blessing of Mara herself, on every ring they bestow upon newlyweds. They call it The Bond of Matrimony. I’ve seen enough of these rings to know what it feels like. It’s a decent boost if you’re fond of the restoration school of magick.”

 

There was an prolonged silence as Aloubard processed exactly what the Imperial was saying. Marcurio knew his way around magick very well, much better than himself actually, and he’d had a formal Winterhold education on the subject. He knew better than to brush off what he was telling him. Sure, it might turn out to be nothing but… one could never be too cautious.

 

Aloubard sighed. He yanked his hand away from the mage’s grip, finished his drink and placed a few extra gold pieces on the counter.

 

“It seems I’ve got some digging to do.”

 

“Oh no, don’t thank me or anything,” Marcurio called out as the breton exited the building. Aloubard laughed with far too much cheer for someone in his current state, and felt the effects of it as he stepped out into the morning sunlight.

 

.

.

.

 

Aloubard didn’t wake up with even half of his usual travelling load. His typical enchanted bow was nowhere to be found, replaced instead by a huntsman’s bow, one he’d paid some villager in Riverwood to carve with renderings of snowberries and intricate swirls. Thing is, he hasn’t seen his hunting bow in weeks, not since he’d left it at his cabin in the woods in Falkreath hold in favor of a more powerful bow better suited for… business.

 

Not to mention he woke up, not in his usual mage robes, but in his fur and silk fineries. Which he also hadn’t seen since his last visit to Falkreath.

 

At least he knew where he was headed.

 

The carriage ride to Falkreath made him even more queasy than before, something he didn’t really even think possible. He couldn’t decide what made him feel more ill - the hangover itself, or the implication that he’d married, an occurrence he’d at one point put a fair amount of septims on never happening, on a drunken whim to gods know whom, the poor sod.

 

He really needed to work on getting sober. Or raising his alcohol tolerance. Probably the latter.

 

The ache in his temples had significantly decreased by the time his feet hit the rich Falkreath soil. He never really could get sick of this place; the forest smelled divine, of evergreen and earth, and the people didn’t ask questions. Too many rumors of strange activity in the woods south of the place for the locals to really be concerned about your personal life. Better yet, if one desired seclusion, he could easily find it among the tall pines that dotted the landscape. Aloubard really wished he had the time to visit more often.

 

Honestly, he didn’t even know where to start, but he swore he could feel a few of the hold guards glaring at him through their helmets, which was an odd sensation. At first, he tried to brush it off, but as soon as he stepped foot in the Dead Man’s Drink, his suspicions were confirmed. Several of the regular patrons openly gave him dirty looks, ones that someone more religious might be praying to the divines to rid themselves of. Aloubard, despite knowing otherwise, couldn’t bring himself to be that superstitious.

 

He stepped up to the counter, about to more or less interrogate poor Valga, but she spoke up before he even got a chance to.

 

“You’ve got quite some nerve, coming back here so soon, Thane.” she said. Valga wouldn’t make eye contact and kept a steady pace wiping down the bar.

 

Aloubard didn’t know why he was surprised. “What do you mean?”

 

The innkeeper scoffed. “No, I suppose you wouldn’t remember, being that piss drunk.”

 

Always a great thing to hear.

 

The thought of _‘do I even want to know?’_ did admittedly did cross his mind. Although, if he was going to get to the bottom of what all went on during his blackout, he’d have to sit through the embarrassment.

 

“What happened?”, Aloubard inquired.

 

Valga sighed and stowed her discolored cleaning rag under the bar. “You were in here and the street last night, swinging some fancy axe that you could barely hold up around and yelling nonsense about some daedra.”

 

That… that got Aloubard’s attention. He cleared his throat. “Any um, any daedra in particular?” He rested his elbow on the counter and his chin on his palm in interest.

 

The innkeeper eyed him with as much suspicion as she did concern. “Yeah, Clavicus Vile. Kind of a strange name, but it’s a bit hard to forget when it’s screamed by a drunk man standing on my tables.”

 

Aloubard grimaced a bit. The more he found out about the past night’s events, the bigger the ass it seemed he made of himself.

 

“Anyways, it doesn’t matter now, I guess. The guards threw you and your friend out of town before you could cause too much trouble. Count yourself lucky, Thane. Your place in the Jarl’s cour-”

 

“Wait,” he interrupted. “Did you mention something about a ‘friend’?”

 

Valga sighed. “Yes, some nord man with long light brown hair and face paint. Wore scaled armor. Any other questions you feel the need to interrogate me with? I need to get back to cleaning the inn.”

 

It was vague, but that brief description alone was enough for him to get a pretty good idea of who was following him around on a reign of intoxicated terror. Aloubard slaps the counter and jumps up from his seat. “Ah, no, thanks. I’ve got to get going.”

 

He was in such a hurry to leave that he forgot to leave a tip.

 

.

.

.

  


The sun was ducking beneath the snow-tipped Skyrim peaks by the time he dismounted his horse at the Markarth stables.

 

Sure, the mountain air was clean and all, if you could stand to attempt to smell it beyond the stench of melted silver and Forsworn murder plots. Honestly, Markarth wasn’t Aloubard’s favorite place in Skyrim - hell, it wasn’t even his favorite place in The Reach, but the commerce was good and better yet, the city attracted plenty of foot-traffic. The more people that set foot in the city, the easier it was for the Breton to blend in. In Whiterun, he stood out like a sore thumb, but in Markarth? He was barely noticeable in a crowd. Sure, the inner politics left much to be desired, but the versatility of the city is what really made it feel like home.

 

Aloubard made the trek up the stone steps to his house, his legs tired and palms sore from riding, and for once he cursed the fact that his house was the highest in the city. He attempted to catch his breath as he opened the heavy metal door. The warmth from the hearth within hit him in the face like a well-placed blow, and he was suddenly grateful for his full-time housecarl for keeping the house warm, clean and well-kept.

 

Aloubard pulled the hood of his cloak off of his head and took his hair out of its bindings, letting the light brown locks fall over his shoulders. One of his favorite comforts of home was letting his hair down, both literally and figuratively.

 

The house was quiet, perhaps a bit too much so for his current liking, and he wandered further down the entryway to find the main hall unoccupied. Strange, Argis was usually up tending to his armor and whatever else needed to be done at this hour.

 

“Argis?” he called out, and at first there was no response beyond the shuffling of heavy boots across the carved stone floor.

 

The housecarl appeared from within the dining room, followed by a suspiciously quiet, “Welcome home, my Thane.”

 

Aloubard decided to brush the strange behavior off. He’d had a long day and a lack of answers to unwind from, and he didn’t need someone else’s problems on his plate as well. He sucked in a breath and grabbed an apple from the brass bowl on the table.

 

“Ah, I have a bit of an odd question, I’m afraid.”

 

Argis shrugged. “Can’t be too strange. Ask away.”

 

The Breton ran his thumb meticulously across the green skin of the apple, examining it for bruises and holes and blemishes, pleased when he found none. “You know that mercenary from the Silver-Blood Inn? The one that always sits by the fire with a tankard of ale?”

 

“Oh, Vorstag?”

 

Aloubard raised his brow and took a bite of his apple. “Oh, good. I mean, I wasn’t aware you were on a first-name basis with some _mercenary_ , but I suppose that makes things easier.” He chewed for a second. “Do you know where I could find him at this hour, by chance?”

 

Argis looked down at his hands and nodded. “Yes, my thane. He’s sleeping.”

 

Aloubard laughed a bit at the specificness of the comment. “Oh yeah? And just how’ve you come to that definite conclusion? It’s a bit specific, don’t you think?”

 

The housecarl gave him a strange look. “Not really, considering he went into the bedroom around midday and hasn’t come out or made a noise since.”

 

The Breton stopped in his tracks. “ _What_?”

 

Argis sighed and started in again, gesturing towards the master bedroom. His thane really wasn't making his job easy today. “I said, it’s not really that strange wh-”

 

“Oh _divines_ , you’ve _got_ to be kidding me,” Aloubard said, effectively cutting the Nord’s thought short.

 

All of a sudden, it made sense. The strange look, the speaking in a hushed tone. Of course there would be a reason for his strange behavior, after all Aloubard could never _just_ happen to catch someone on an off day. There was always a reason, usually to his detriment. He sighed at the thought and pushed it aside. Aloubard took off like a flame atronach scorned in the direction the bedroom.

 

 _His_ bedroom.

 

“Why in Oblivion did you just _let him in_?” Aloubard was borderline yelling, not caring who he disturbed.

 

Argis opened his mouth to answer, but Aloubard didn’t give him the chance to explain himself.

 

He through open the doors, fruit still in hand and launched it at the sleeping figure in his bed ( _his_ bed!), smacking him squarely on the ear.

 

Vorstag shouted at the impact and jolted out of his relaxed position, expression startled. “What th...”

 

“-fuck do you think you’re doing?” Aloubard barked, practically fuming at this point. He’d had a long day, and this was the last thing he wanted to come home to, but yet- here he was, dealing with even more repercussions of the previous night’s debauchery.

 

Vorstag rubbed the side of his head, more or less cradling his ear, and groaned. “Gods, why does that hurt so bad?”

 

Aloubard didn’t know what he was expecting. He didn’t expect to have much sympathy for the Nord, considering he was a stranger, and therefore an intruder, in his house and all, but the hand Vorstag just so happened to raise to his ear also just so happened to be clothed with a single matching gold band, identical to his.

 

The pieces of the puzzle, it seemed, were coming together, and he wasn’t sure if that was a good thing. Aloubard pinched the bridge of his nose. He was beginning to feel a new and even more exciting headache coming on, albeit for entirely different reasons.

 

“Just… please, get out of my bed.”

 

Vorstag paused and took in his surroundings. “Hm,” he hummed, seemingly about as confused about the situation as Aloubard was. Vorstag stood up, half-clothed, and Aloubard groaned.

 

Vorstag stumbled around for his pants, and once he found them, dusted them off. “So, uh…” He slid one leg into the garment. “Why exactly was I… in your bed, anyways?”

 

Aloubard, understanding what the taller man was implying and very, very much doubting it, pushed the thought to the back of his mind for the sake of his own sanity. He sighed into his palm. “I don’t know. Your guess is probably as good as mine.”

 

Vorstag laced up the ties on his pants and looked at Aloubard expectantly, as if he was anticipating him to elaborate.

 

“I mean… for fucks sake… fine, whatever. Please, finish dressing and then… come to the dining room. We have much to discuss.”

 

.

.

.

 

When Vorstag finally emerged from the bedroom, fully clothed, Aloubard was sitting at the dining table, eating a more than generous portion of cheese and nursing a bottle of wine. Drink may have been the start of his problems but that didn’t mean it could help him finish them off.

 

Vorstag gingerly pulled out a chair and sat down at the table, nervously clearing his throat.

 

Aloubard poured him a glass from his bottle and gestured to the food. “Please, eat. Gods know you probably need it, considering all the travelling it seems we’ve been up to lately.”

 

Vorstag nearly gagged at the thought of touching another drop of drink. This was the sort of feeling that made him tell himself he’d never drink again, and then fail miserably on that promise a few days later. But for now, he set the cup down and picked up a slice of bread instead.

 

After a few minutes of much needed peace and quiet, Aloubard spoke up. “So… do you remember anything, uh,” he shrugged. “... significant?”

 

Vorstag squinted, as if straining to think. “I’m not sure… my memory is foggy at best.”

 

Aloubard sighed. “I’ll take foggy over nothing.”

 

“Was I in the Temple of Mara?” Vorstag inquired, brow furrowed.

 

Any shred of doubt Aloubard had faded away like ashes to the wind.

 

“Suppose so.”

 

“But why would I-”

 

“May I see your left hand?” Aloubard interrupted.

 

“My left hand?”

 

“Mmhm.” He took a sip of his drink. “Humor me?”

 

Vorstag shrugged and offered forth the hand requested, eyes going wide when he discovered the new gold adornment resting on his ring finger.

 

Aloubard worked the ring off the Nord’s hand and, after briefly displaying his own half of the set to the man opposite him, examined it more closely. Upon close examination, the ring glowed a faint bluish-white hue, the enchantment resonating in a manner very similar to his own piece of jewelry. He was no enchanter, he knew that much, but this was just too much of a coincidence to be just that.

 

The realization that he was wedded hadn’t hit him yet, not really, but when he handed the ring back to his apparent spouse and Aloubard’s hand brushed Vorstag’s, he suddenly felt lightheaded with the weight of commitment. A certain nausea that he tried to suppress rose up within him and grew, cultivated by his growing nervousness. He didn’t ask for this, he didn’t even know if he wanted this, and every part of Aloubard wanted to scream, wanted to lash out at Vorstag. Divorce was something unheard of in Skyrim. The realization made Aloubard even more queasy.  

 

Vorstag sat opposite him at the table, looking just as confused as he was, and Aloubard realized they were likely more in the same boat than he previously realized. The Breton stared at him, willing Vorstag to respond, to say _something_ , when Vorstag finally slipped the ring back on.

 

“Huh,” he said, staring down at the piece of precious metal.

 

Aloubard blinked slowly, stunned. “Just… ‘huh’?”

 

Vorstag sucked in a breath. He was nervous, clearly trying to conceal that fact, and doing an extraordinarily poor job of it. “I guess so.”

 

That triggered something in Aloubard, something that he’d previously been holding back with a very precariously built barrier that came crashing down at the force of just a few words. “I tell you about what’s likely the biggest mistake in your life, and all you have to say is ‘huh’?” His words mocked Vorstag’s tone, mimicking the syllable as the Nord had said it.

 

Vorstag was visibly shocked by the sudden outburst. He sat forward in his chair. “Wh- well what would you like me to say?” He tried to sound angry, to match Aloubard’s verbal intensity, but his breath was coming out shaky, betraying his tone.

 

Aloubard realized Vorstag was probably just as scared and confused as he was. He was yelling at this man, who was in exactly the same shoes as he was, and no matter how hard he grasped for a reason he just couldn’t bring himself to justify that.

 

His head ached. His anger was definitely misplaced, so much so that his body was trying to tell him so as well as his guilt.

 

“Nevermind,” Aloubard said, after a pause. “I’m sorry for yelling, that wasn’t right of me.”

 

The Nord slumped back in his seat, tension visibly leaving his body. “It’s okay, I understand.” Vorstag fidgeted with his bread, setting it down on the plate in front of him. “I probably would have done the same.”

 

There was a long period of silence between the two, during which the only thing audible was the crackling of the burning wood in the fireplace. Aloubard found himself watching the flames intently, mindlessly watching the fire flicker and dwindle upon the last piece of non-charred wood. Fire was indifferent to the struggles of man, it took and gave forth as it saw fit. The thought comforted the Breton in some strange way.

 

He remembered the flames from the incident where he was arrested at the border of Skyrim, how he lost control and how the greedy flames licked painfully at his skin. Aloubard stroked the pink scar over the rough fabric of his clothes. Now was not the time to dwindle upon such things. He didn’t know if there was ever a time to dwindle upon a happening like that.

 

Aloubard snapped out of it, realizing he’d been staring off into space for quite some time. He rose to his feet and made his way over to the pile of wood next to the fireplace. If the hearth were to serve its purpose for the night, it would need more lumber to fuel the fire.

 

Vorstag cleared his throat, seemingly coming out of his own thoughts. “Anyways, I can at the very least tell you that your axe is safe and sound.”

 

Ah, yes. The axe. The one they allegedly (read: apparently) terrorized the patrons at the Dead Man’s Drink with. Right. Aloubard had more or less forgot about it, what with the stress and unwanted eventful evening and all.

 

Aloubard swallowed hard. “Alright, so that’s one thing out of the way.”

 

Vorstag didn’t say anything, didn’t even indicate that he’d heard what the Breton said, but somehow Aloubard knew he agreed that the less they had to figure out, the less they had to deal with and the less stress they had to push through, the better and easier things would be for the both of them.

 

Aloubard plopped down in his chair, and only then did he notice the fatigue that made its home deep in his muscles. He swore he felt tired all the way down to the bones. He drew in a breath, and on the exhale, spoke.

 

“I think it would be in our collective best interest to pick up where we left off in figuring this out tomorrow. After a long night’s rest.”

 

Vorstag laughed under his breath. “Yeah, that’s a good idea. Not sure how it’s possible, but I’m still exhausted.” He seemed to have visibly relaxed quite a bit. For some odd reason, that set Aloubard’s nerves at ease.

 

Aloubard finished off the contents of his goblet and rose to his feet once again. “Right, so I’ll take a few blankets out of the cupboard and sleep by the hearth. You take the bed.”

 

Vorstag actually looked him in the eye for the first time that he could remember. “Oh no, I-”

 

Aloubard hushed him. “Please, you’re a guest in my home. After such a long night, I doubt you’d like to make the trek down to the inn, and really it’s the least I can do for dragging you through all this trouble.”

 

Vorstag didn’t really know what to say, and he was too tired to argue.

 

“Okay.”

 

The Nord stood up, his stature a good five inches taller than Aloubard’s, now that he noticed it, and pushed his chair in and out of the way. He wanted to be as polite as possible- it was obvious that the Breton was genuinely apologetic about the cards they’d been dealt, and he wanted to repay that sentiment was well as he could.

 

Vorstag headed off to bed, and Aloubard couldn’t help but feel as if there was something wrong about standing in an empty room.

 

.

.

.

 

Aloubard woke up shivering to a dark house, with only a single bear pelt separating him him from cold stone floor. The fire had gone out at some point while he was sleeping, and stone did nothing to help insulate from the harsh cold winter weather of Skyrim. He must not’ve added enough wood to the fire after dinner, Aloubard thought with irritation. He weighed his options. He thought about it for longer than he’d like to admit, even though he knew sloth would eventually win out.

 

In the end, he was right. Aloubard snuck into his room, gently closing the door behind him, and padded across hard stone to his bed. He crawled in  next to Vorstag and tried his best not to wake the sleeping Nord. He tried even more carefully to keep to his side of the bed, a task which would’ve been extremely awkward had his drowsiness not taken hold of his barely conscious state. The Breton fell asleep to the comfort of shared warmth and, although he wouldn’t admit it to himself, the comfort of a bed shared.

**Author's Note:**

> Hello, yes I'm aware that I'm several years late to the 'Skyrim OC fanfiction party', but I'm going to post this here despite the fact that it's 2018 and it's very likely that no one cares about this sort of thing anymore. 
> 
> Anyways, this was only lightly proof-read, so if you find any mistakes let me know! And I'm always open to constructive criticism, of course.


End file.
